


A War in Winter

by HokiePokie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Attempt for Closure, Until TWOW, post-adwd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 05:43:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19968979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HokiePokie/pseuds/HokiePokie
Summary: Picks up Post-ADWD.  My attempt at something that maybe resembles TWOW (but probably won't, knowing GRRM).





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> First thing's first, I own nothing pertaining to the ASOIAF series. I can only thank GRRM for sharing these wonderful books with the world. 
> 
> This is my first attempt at writing well, really anything that isn't related to my work in grade school and college. Any constructive criticism is invited and would be appreciated, just so long as it is civil and well-intentioned. I'm sure that there are many problems with my writing, considering that I am an amateur and my major is as STEM as it gets (I have very little exposure to creative writing in that respect). However, your feedback can help me improve, which is good for both my writing skills and for you as readers who get to consume work of a higher quality. 
> 
> With that said, here is the first piece of fan-fiction I have ever written. Tags will be updated as I post more. I wrote this prologue with the intention of establishing the overall plot more than anything, so if it seems like things get going really quickly, that's probably why. Thanks for reading!

**Prologue**

Edmure’s legs were sore from days of walking. The journey to Casterly Rock had thus far proven to be a lengthy one. Their host had been traveling for two weeks and had yet to pass from the Riverlands into the hills of the west. To make matters worse, the travel conditions were less than desirable. The River Road had fallen into neglect during the War of the Five Kings; the once-vibrant trade route was barely visible amongst the tall grass that had been allowed to grow and many leagues had been eroded by runoff from the Red Fork. 

Edmure, despite his status as a war prisoner had been shown hospitality befitting his status as a lord of a great house. _No, I am no longer a lord. The Freys and Lannisters stole that title from me during the Red Wedding, and I was compensated with the death of my sister and her son, my king._ Regardless, he was not kept in chains, given three meals each day, and even allowed a bed to sleep in if any were available. These luxuries did nothing to rid him of his shame at yielding Riverrun to the Lannisters. _I had to do it. They would have killed my wife and child otherwise. Father, would you not have done the same?_ Hoster Tully had always had great love for his children. 

As the sun was setting behind the distant hills of the Westerlands, the host ceased their march for the day. Ser Forley Prester, whom Jaime Lannister had left as his escort, had a soldier set up Edmure’s tent while they ate dinner. As he sat by the fire, gorging himself on leg-of-lamb- a Lannisport delicacy- and a red wine of unknown vintage, Edmure saw his former queen, Jeyne Westerling, following her mother through the camp. She appeared weary, with eyes red from countless tears. _She hasn’t been able to stop crying since Roose Bolton killed her husband,_ Edmure thought. Her own mother had made her a pawn in a conspiracy to compel Robb Stark to break his oath to Lord Frey, a plot that reeked of Tywin Lannister. _It certainly worked, though. The war was lost to my nephew the day he took the Westerling girl to wife._

After dinner, Ser Forley showed Edmure to his tent, and left him to his own devices until the next morning. As with each night, he proceeded to imagine how he might escape from his captors, only to conclude that it couldn’t be done. _I am too closely guarded, and even if I did make it away from the camp, I would not be able to outrun a horsed search party afoot. My escape would also mean the death of my child, no doubt. I could never leave my own blood to such a fate. Family, Duty, Honor…_ the Tully words echoed through his mind.

Edmure finished the flagon of wine that had been left in his tent and climbed into bed. He listened to the sound of the crickets in the trees until he slowly drifted off…

…Only to wake up to a whistling sound followed by the thud of something hitting the ground. Before he could comprehend what was happening, his tent flap was thrown open and in strode a tall figure in a hooded cloak. Edmure could barely recognize him until he noticed the black clasp on his chest. “Uncle,” he said. “What are you doing?” 

Brynden Tully looked at him as if he were daft. “Getting you away from here, obviously. Now get up before anyone realizes what is happening. Come now, we have an extra horse waiting for you.” The piercing look in his uncle’s eyes told Edmure that he would have no choice but to do as he was bid. 

Upon exiting the tent, Edmure saw the cause of the noise that had woken him. Each of the three guards stationed outside his tent, included Ser Forley, was dead; numerous arrows sprouted from their bodies. The Blackfish handed him the reins of a robust black courser, mounted his own horse, and they took off. 

As they rode away from the camp, Edmure could hear the hoofbeats of other horses behind them. “We’re being followed,” he told his uncle. 

The Blackfish glanced back and grinned. “No, we aren’t. These are all members of your rescue party.” 

Edmure was stunned. “There are at least twenty men with you, uncle. How were you able to get so many within proximity of the encampment without rousing suspicion?”

His uncle shrugged. “It wasn’t as hard as you might believe. We had been watching your movements for days now. Our man inside the camp has been feeding us information: scout movements, the location of your tent, and the like. Once we had the scouts and outriders dispatched, carrying out the rest of our plans was trivial.”

After an hour of riding, Edmure’s fear crept up on him. “Uncle,” he said. “My fleeing. The Lannisters will kill my wife and unborn child for this. We can’t let that happen. My wife must be on her way to Casterly Rock as we speak, we have to-“

“No need to worry, Edmure,” Brynden cut him off. “Our informants have been very active. We were immediately made aware of Roslin Frey’s departure from the Twins, and plans are under way to ensure that she never reaches Casterly Rock.” His uncle turned to look him in the eye. “I will not live to see another another Tully die before their time.”

His answer reassured Edmure, and yet… “You were only one person when I allowed you to escape from Riverrun, and yet now it seems you have assembled a force to be reckoned with.” _How?_ The question went unasked.

“That was not my doing,” the Blackfish said. “I promise you nephew, all will be explained in time, but until then we must focus on putting as much distance as possible between you and the Lannisters.” With that, they rode in silence.

By the time they stopped, the sun was nearing its zenith. From its location in the sky, Edmure determined that they had been riding due north, as if toward the Twins. He followed his uncle to a small camp of no more than ten tents, where they dismounted.

Before too long, Edmure noticed two horses approaching the camp. As he looked at the first rider, a lanky man with brown hair, Edmure recognized him as the singer from Riverrun. _Tom Sevenstrings,_ he realized. _My uncle mentioned an informant stationed with the Lannister host. This must have been who it was._ Jaime Lannister himself had bid Sevenstrings sing for Edmure after Riverrun had fallen. _He must have performed his task admirably to get in proximity of Lord Jaime._ Despite being impressed with the singer, he wished that the informant had been anyone else. Many years ago, Tom of Sevenstreams had infuriated Edmure by making a song about his “floppy fish” after an incident in which he had been too drunk to perform during a visit to a Riverrun brothel. 

When he gazed upon the second rider, Edmure felt his fists clench. “What is _she_ doing here?” He couldn’t refrain from shouting the question. 

His uncle put a hand on his shoulder. “Relax, nephew. Our lady herself requested that we take Robb’s former queen as well. She was insistent that Jeyne Westerling be delivered _unharmed._ ”

His uncle’s words did nothing to calm Edmure. “But she betrayed us; betrayed her lord husband! Traitors deserve death.”

At his words, Jeyne Westerling burst into tears. “I’m so sorry,” she wept. “I loved my king, I really did; I wanted to raise his children. I didn’t know- I never wanted-“ She began sobbing uncontrollably. 

The Blackfish looked at Tom Sevenstrings. “Take her to her tent and let her rest. She must be weary from the ride.” After they left, he turned to Edmure. “You should not have spoken to her so harshly,” he frowned. “You know as well as I that the role she played in our king’s demise was done unwittingly and unwillingly.”

Edmure sighed. “You’re right, I know you are. I just couldn’t help but wonder what might have been if Robb had stayed true to the oath that he swore Walder Frey. The Young Wolf had yet to lose on the battlefield; he could have led us to victory over the Lannisters. Instead, we’re in hiding while a fucking _Frey_ resides in the seat of our house. I guess I couldn’t help but blame his widow for our misfortune.”'

The look on Ser Brynden’s face softened. “I understand. Still, she is just a girl who has lost the man she loved. We cannot excoriate her for the sins of Robb’s true killers. We always knew Lord Walder was a sneaky little weasel. My father himself knew. ‘Never trust a Frey,’ he would tell Hoster and I when we were boys. ‘They’ve gained everything that they have by sticking knives in the backs of those they call friends.’” He pointed toward the tents. “Now get some rest, Edmure. We have big plans to tackle on the morrow.”

The next day, Edmure broke his fast in his uncle’s tent. He was served stale bread and a gamey squirrel that one of the guards on watch had slain overnight, but Edmure could care less. To him, the worst meal eaten in freedom was worth more than a thousand feasts attended in captivity.

As he filled his cup with wine, he turned to his uncle. “This lady of yours, who is she? What is she planning?”

The look on his uncle’s face considerably darkened. “You’ll find out who she is soon enough. As for her plans, I can tell you that she wants to see the Freys dead and you reinstalled as the Lord Paramount of the Trident.”

_A sympathetic riverlady, perhaps._ Yet Edmure could not imagine which of the houses of the Riverlands would wish to defy the Iron Throne now that they had all been accepted back into the king’s peace. “That must explain why she had you free me from the Lannisters.”

“Yes and no,” Ser Brynden grinned widely at him. “She also needs you for your knowledge regarding Robb Stark’s last wishes. Our war is far from over, nephew.”

Edmure jaw dropped so far that he feared he would never again close his mouth. _She wishes to crown a new King of Winter,_ he thought. _She wants to crown… Jon Snow._


	2. Val I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Jon out of the equation at the moment, I had to determine who would be the best POV character at the Wall. I feel that because of Melisandre's mysterious nature, I should be conservative with how much she is used as a POV (I do plan on giving her at least one POV chapter), so Val seemed to be the next best option. I also like Val as a character in general. It was a mistake to leave her out of the show. 
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!

**Val**

Val was in her room atop Hardin’s Tower putting the little monster to bed when the floor began shaking violently. Her immediate thought was that the tower was collapsing as she recalled how unstable it appeared at a glance. However, her fears were put to rest for a time when she heard shouting on the ground below her. 

When she peered out of the window, she saw the catalyst of the chaos assaulting Castle Black. Wun Wun, who had taken it upon himself to guard Hardin’s Tower, was repeatedly smashing a body against its wall. Free folk, queen’s men, and crows alike were gathered around to watch the scene unfold. Not one of them appeared poised to put a stop to it. Soon, the onlookers parted, and a lone figure stepped forward to try to calm the giant. _Lord Crow._ Val couldn’t hear what was said, but his words were obviously failing, as the giant refused to cease his relentless thrashing of what was undoubtedly a corpse by then.

Everything after that was a blur, she remembered seeing the first knife slash through Lord Snow’s neck, then a stab to his stomach from the Old Pomegranate, then another, and another. She had grabbed her knife and stormed to the bottom of the tower at a pace that would put a shadowcat to shame, but when she reached him it was too late. His lifeless grey eyes stared up at her. 

She was paralyzed, her body refusing to heed her mind’s command that it move. Around her, the confusion of the situation was rapidly deteriorating into total disarray. Black brothers were screaming at one another, while the queen’s men had all drawn their swords. She saw Tormund Giantsbane staring at Jon Snow’s corpse, grim faced, before she realized just how foolish the crows had been. _Jon Snow had allowed more than three-thousand free folk through the Wall, gaining their respect and loyalty in the process. He was the only crutch supporting the fragile peace between the wildlings and the Night’s Watch. The crows hadn’t even waited for them to relocate farther south before they killed him._ Tormund was no fool. He knew that Jon Snow was subverting the old guard of the Night’s Watch by aiding the wildlings. He would no doubt view the attack on the Lord Commander as an attack on his own people. _He would crush the crows, too. His numbers dwarf those of the Night’s Watch._

Before her eyes, the unrest gave way to a bloodbath. Queen’s men surrounded Wun Wun, repeatedly thrusting at him with their spears. This seemed to anger the giant more than hurt him, as he plucked two of them from the ground as effortlessly as if they were babes and slammed their heads together in an explosion of brain and bone. 

Turning, she saw Toregg, Tormund’s tall, brawny son, duck under a slash from the sword of a crow and respond with a swing of his axe, shortening his assailant by a head. Nearby, two more crows were crossing swords with one another. _Even the Night’s Watch has been splintered by this mutiny._

A flash of silver in the corner of her eye drew Val from her momentary stupor. She leapt backward, just barely avoiding the loss of an arm, and drove her dagger through the eye of the queen’s man that had attacked her. His scream pierced her ears, until she silenced him by drawing her knife across his throat.

Amidst the mayhem engulfing Castle Black, Val only had eyes for one person. She saw him scrambling frantically toward the main hall and started after him. Before she could reach him, however, Wick Wittlestick maneuvered between them. _A mistake,_ thought Val. She had no sword to match Wittlestick’s, but her agility with a knife would be more than enough to do for him. 

She dodged his first thrust to the right and lashed out with her knife; it caught only air. The next blow came down as if to catch her shoulder, but she turned her body and the sword became lodged in the ice at her feet. Before she could take advantage, he had freed the sword and lunged toward her in a flurry of strikes. 

Val managed to dodge three of them before the next one grazed her back as she tried to duck under it. She immediately felt the cold air against the skin exposed by the cut, as well as the blood running down her back, yet she felt no pain. The pacing of their combat had become almost rhythmic. Dodge. Slash. Duck. Thrust. Dodge. Slash. She could feel herself tiring, however, and knew that she must look for an opening to end it. 

Her opportunity came when Wittlestick overcommitted on a lunging thrust, leaving his side open. She slammed into him with her shoulder, jarring his sword from his hand. Staring death in the face, Wittlestick threw his hands up. “I submit!” he said, almost pleadingly.

Val laughed in his face. “Why should I grant you the gift of mercy when you had none for your own lord?” She felt anger burning throughout her body. Before he could react, she stabbed him, hard, in the manhood. “For Lord Snow.” His eyes grew wide. She drew the blade up until she had opened him from groin to ribcage and watched as his entrails spilled to the ground, followed by his body. 

Not long after entering the castle’s main hall, she found Bowen Marsh hiding under a table. He looked pathetic, curled in the fetal position and shuddering uncontrollably. When he saw her, his face flushed as white as if he were an Other. “Please,” he stammered. “I did it for the Watch. For my brothers. You must understand, Jon Snow was breaking his oath by marching on Ramsay Bolton. A deserter is not fit to be Lord Commander. He would have brought us all down with him.”

“Did you not violate your own oath by killing your sworn brother? It is not for you to determine who has and who hasn’t broken their vows.” Val was astonished at his hypocrisy.

Marsh frowned. “Typically, such is a duty of the Lord Commander. Yet, what can be done when the Lord Commander himself is an oathbreaker? I had to take matters into my own hands.”

Val sent him a withering look. “Ramsay Bolton threatened to kill Lord Snow. What is a threat on the Lord Commander if not a threat on Night’s Watch itself? Just as you are expected not to involve yourselves in the affairs of the realm, the realm must allow the Night’s Watch to operate without impedance, is that not correct? I would imagine that your Lord Commander was doing what he thought he must to preserve the integrity of the Watch. Would you expect him to simply lie down and allow himself to be flayed alive by Ramsay Bolton?”

The Old Pomegranate gave her a resigned look. “I know that you’ll never see eye to eye with me on this. You’re a wildling, after all. Honor, duty, the sanctity of vows, those mean nothing to your people.”

“You’re wrong about that. I swore to Lord Snow that I would return to him with Tormund Giantsbane when he sent me beyond the Wall. I had every opportunity to flee, to return to freedom. Yet I came back, for him, because I promised that I would.” She continued. “Honor and duty meant everything to Jon Snow. He could have been the Lord of Winterfell, you know. But he refused because he knew that his duty lay here, below the Wall. And you killed him. You deserve no better.”

Bowen Marsh bowed his head. “Enough talk. Go ahead and kill me. I regret nothing. What I did, I did for the Watch.” Marsh spoke as if he were trying to convince himself more than her. 

“And now your watch is ended.” Val stabbed him in the throat. 

The scene before Val upon exiting the main hall was a morose one. Bodies were being piled up in the training yard, so that they might be burned lest they rise as wights. Val spotted Tormund on the far side of the yard, supervising the process. She made her way over to him.

When he saw her, he gave her the slightest of smiles. It didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s good to see you’ve made it, Val. Har. Wouldn’t want to have to burn ya before Toregg could steal ya.” 

Val chuckled. “Let him try if he dares. I’m glad to see you’re okay as well, Tormund. I had to see to Lord Crow’s killers. What happened while I was gone?” 

Tormund’s smile disappeared. “After Snow… When the southroners started attacking Wun Wun, my men attempted to defend him. Har. As if he needed defending. Har. The crows who supported Snow joined them, while the others took up arms against us. In the end, our sheer numbers prevailed, though we suffered more casualties, and the queen’s men who weren’t killed were forced to flee. The queen and her daughter went with them.”

“And the Red Woman.” Val hoped she had died in the fighting. 

“She remains here. Insists that her fire god, Rilore or whatever his name is, wanted her to stay. Said she saw it in her flames. Har. She’s crazy if ye ask me.”

This confused Val. _Her beloved king is dead. So why stay? What is here for her other than death?_ A voice behind her caused Val to jump.

“I am wanted here, princess.” Melisandre’s eyes seemed to bore into her soul. _Did she know what I was thinking?_ Val looked away. “The flames have been hard to read, but I have learned what they say. I asked to see Azor Ahai, and R’hllor showed me Snow.” She sighed. “I warned him of daggers in the dark, yet he would not heed me. Now I must right this wrong. I have requested that his body be stored one of the cells embedded in the Wall until I can determine what to do next.”

“I thought Stannis was your promised king. Why serve Stannis if he isn’t truly R’hllor’s champion?”

Melisandre blinked. “I too believed he was. As I’ve said, the fires can be hard to interpret. R’hllor led me to Stannis for a reason. I was sure that he did so because Stannis was his chosen warrior. Now, I’ve come to believe that he did so because he knew that following Stannis would lead me to Snow.”

“Jon Snow is dead.”

“He may be dead now, yes.” Val’s eyes again met the Red Woman’s. “But R’hllor’s power is mighty. If Jon Snow is his champion, R’hllor will give him back to us. Besides, I don’t believe he is as dead as you believe.” She turned and walked away.

 _The damned woman always speaks in riddles. I saw him laying in a pool of his own blood, of course he’s dead. Unless…_ Val remembered what she knew of skinchangers, having witnessed many of them on the other side of the Wall. She had been told that the consciousness of a warg might live on in another skin after the death of their physical body. It was an open secret amongst the free folk that Lord Crow was a warg. _Could that mean that Jon Snow lives on as Ghost?_

Val felt an urge to find the white wolf. She recalled that the Lord Commander had confined Ghost to his quarters in the armory, due to the hostility between him and the boar that had arrived with Borroq, another warg, from beyond the Wall. Val turned and began walking in that direction.

When she arrived at Lord Snow’s chamber, it appeared as if it had been ransacked. The floor was littered with scraps of parchment and the black attire of the crows, while a desk in the corner of the room had been tipped over. Next to it lay the direwolf.

Ghost was a ragged sight to behold. The fur on his paws was matted with blood, as if he had been furiously clawing at something. _The door,_ Val knew. _He must have known that something wrong was happening to Lord Snow. This truly is no ordinary direwolf._ True to his name, the wolf sat in perfect silence. Yet when he met her eyes, Val could see the sadness in them. He stood up and padded over to her as she knelt to allow him to lick her hand. 

“Come with me, Ghost,” Val murmured. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He followed her as she exited the room.

After they had arroved at Hardin’s Tower and made the climb to Val’s chamber, she started a fire and melted some snow above it to wash the wolf’s wounds. She felt Ghost’s gaze on her as she took a damp cloth to his paws to wash the blood from his fur. Once she had finished, she spread her bearskin cloak on the ground as a makeshift bed for him to use. She smiled faintly as he immediately curled up on it and closed his eyes.

Val climbed into her own bed, exhausted from the previous battle. She pondered the words the Red Woman had spoken to her earlier. “Jon,” she found herself saying. “If you can hear me, I want you to know this: you protected my sister and I- as well as her son- when the king routed my people beneath the Wall. Now, it is I who shall protect you.”

As if in response, Ghost leaped onto her bed and settled down beside her, placing his head on her stomach. She gently stroked his ears before closing her eyes. 

She was woken the next day as a bright ray of light heated her face. For the first time in a while, the morning sun had warmed the Wall enough to melt the ice upon its vast southern face. _It weeps for Jon Snow._ Val felt wetness in her own eyes. _As do I._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate the comments that have been left so far. A good point was made about LSH, which I had intended to respond to, but another commenter actually beat me to it, haha! 
> 
> I still feel like I'm not writing enough in each chapter. I did some quick number crunching and determined that a typical GRRM chapter is likely around 3.5-4k words, if not more, but I could only make it to 2.3k in this one. I don't wish to add words for the sake of adding words, but I feel as if more could be done. Please let me know if the plot seems to rush at times. Perhaps I need to get better at dedicating a whole paragraph to describing a single thing. You'd think after three years of college I'd have mastered the art of bullshitting, haha!


	3. The Dragon's Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battle for Storm's End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I've been on vacation.

**The Dragon’s Hand**

The raven hit the ground with a thud, an arrow protruding from its neck. In the distance, the single tower of Storm’s End rose toward the sky as if to brush the clouds. Griff studied the fortress as he made his way through the ranks of the Golden Company to discuss battle plans with its officers. _It is no wonder that the castle has never fallen in conventional warfare,_ he thought. _Its walls must be penetrable by nothing short of dragonfire._ Jon had heard that they were forty feet thick on their thinnest side, and that no side was less than a hundred feet tall. 

Coordinating the landing of Aegon’s army in Westeros was a strategic nightmare, to say the least. At first, only Jon and his force of roughly 1200 men had landed, but that had been more than enough strength to retake Griffin’s Roost, his house’s ancestral home. Soon thereafter, Tristan Rivers and Laswell Peake had landed with their men and taken Crow’s Nest and Rain House. Mistwood, Greenstone, and several of the Stepstones followed until the entirety of the Rainwood was currently under the control of King Aegon. 

Each of the splinter forces of the Golden Company had joined at Griffin’s Roost: roughly nine-thousand men, with a thousand either yet to land or lost at sea. Once the host had assembled, they had marched three days along the coast of Shipbreaker Bay to their current situation about a league or two from Storm’s End. In all, the Golden Company’s arrival in Westeros had been more successful than Griff could have hoped.

After several minutes, Griff arrived at the command tent. Within, he heard captain-general Harry Strickland conferring with his officers. “…must surround the fortress. We can quickly dispatch the Rowan force outside the gates and commandeer their siege weapons. Our ships can block the harbor and prevent any supplies from getting to the garrison. Most like, we will take the castle within a year.” 

It was just like the ever-cautious Harry Strickland to suggest besieging a castle held by a force that was dwarfed by his own army. “Captain-general, we do not have time to starve out the men holding Storm’s End. We need to take it soon as a base of operations to spearhead our invasion. When the Iron Throne learns of our landing, the Tyrell army will no doubt be marched down upon us. As numbers go, we cannot hope to defeat them in open battle. With Storm’s End, however, we will be in a much more favorable position to defend against a Tyrell attack.”

Strickland turned to him with a grimace. “Pray tell, my lord,” he spat, voice dripping with sarcasm. “How do you suggest we infiltrate the castle?” It was a rhetorical question, but Griff couldn’t have provided an answer in the first place.

“Enough.” Everyone in the tent turned to see Aegon stride into the tent, with Haldon Halfmaester beside him. “This castle will fall on the morrow; I swear this on the grave of my mother.” He had washed the dye from his hair, and it shone a bright silver as it fell over his deep violet eyes. _His father’s hair,_ Griff knew. _He looks like a true Targaryen._

The captain-general looked at him skeptically and scoffed. “Your grace, Storm’s End has seen many wars without being lost. A garrison of a hundred men can defend it against a force fifty times as large with ease. We cannot possibly win it in a single day.” 

Aegon’s eyes burned with an almost draconic intensity as he spoke. “Oh, it will. I have been discussing the attack with Haldon, and we have devised a plan I would deem foolproof.” He glanced at the Halfmaester. “I’ll allow him to explain.” 

Recognizing his cue, Haldon stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Captains. Lord Connington,” he acknowledged. “While we were in Essos, preparing to cross the Narrow Sea, our spidery friend has been in Westeros spinning webs of deceit. It is said that Stannis Baratheon is in the market for sellswords to aid in his own conquest for the Iron Throne. This much is true, yet the Spider’s little birds have been adding lies to the rumors, particularly that the Golden Company has broken its contract to side with Stannis. He ensures us that these rumors have reached Ser Gilbert Farring and his men within Storm’s End. King Aegon and I believe that if we were to fly the company’s banners and defeat the Rowan force currently besieging the castle, the gates would be raised for us without a fight.”

As the words faded, the occupants of the tent sat in stunned silence. A moment passed before it was broken by Tristan Rivers. “This is a truly good plan. I believe it will work.” Laswell Peake grunted in agreement, and even Harry Strickland seemed impressed. 

The praise seemed to please Aegon, as he grinned widely. “Thank you, my loyal captains. Now get some rest, we attack at first light.” 

Later that night, Jon tossed and turned in his bed. He his anticipation pulse through him; Jon had never been able to rest before a battle. Knowing this night was going to be no different, he got up, donned a pair of trousers as well as a simple tunic adorned with the griffin of his house, and stepped outside for a walk to calm his nerves. 

Despite the hour, it appeared as if the men of the Golden Company were also on edge about the upcoming battle. As he strode aimlessly through camp, he saw a few familiar faces doing the same. He nodded at some of the men he recognized and made polite small talk with others when a voice called his name. Jon turned to find Aegon behind him, flanked by Ser Rolly Duckfield, whom had previously been named the first knight of his kingsguard.

Jon muttered a quick greeting before saying, “My king, you should be sleeping, we cannot have you too weary to hold a sword during battle tomorrow. Especially as you insist upon leading the attack.”

Aegon chuckled. “I suppose I must say the same to you, my lord. Alas, I find myself too restless. It must be the dragon in me. I can feel its fire in my blood.” 

Jon nodded. “I understand, your grace. Your father was much the same, you know. Taking lives was never easy for him, despite his prowess at war. Knowing that bloodshed was inevitable never failed to plague him with sleepless nights before battle. I believe his value of life is what would have made him a good, righteous ruler. He knew that he must kill when it was necessary yet found no pleasure in it. You must strive to do the same.” 

Aegon paused in thought, seemingly contemplating what he had just heard. “Rolly, leave us,” he finally said. “I wish to speak to Lord Connington alone.” When the knight appeared to hesitate, he spoke. “Come now, I am as safe with Jon as I am with you. Nothing will happen to me.” Ser Rolly appeared as if he wanted to argue further, then relented and walked away. When he was gone, Aegon motioned for Jon to follow him to a nearby fire pit where they sat in respite. 

A comfortable silence passed between them as the heat from the fire penetrated through the chilly autumn air, warming their skin. Finally, Aegon turned to him and spoke. “Let us drop the formalities Jon. We are friends, are we not. We never used them before we arrived in Westeros, after all.”

“Of course… Aegon,” Jon replied. “What is it that you wanted to speak of?”

“I would know more about my father. Of course, I know all about his life and history from my lessons, but I feel that I don’t truly know _him_. You were his closest friend; you could tell me about the Rhaegar Targaryen that was seen by those he loved.” 

This surprised Jon, as Aegon had never previously shown this sort of interest in his father. As if hearing his thoughts, Aegon said, “It is known that he was widely loved by the people, both common and noble. Now that we are here in Westeros, if I am to rule, I feel that I should know what makes a good ruler. As you said earlier, my father would have made a good king. If I were to emulate his example, then I too might be worthy of the title of Protector of the Realm.

His words made Jon’s heart swell. Over the years, he had come to love Aegon as a father would love his son. Knowing that he wanted to do right by the Seven Kingdoms filled him with pride for his adoptive son. 

“I would be glad to tell you all about your father, Aegon.” He paused in thought for a moment. _Where to start._ “I met Rhaegar when I was close to your age; we were both squires in service to Ser Gerold Hightower. He quickly grew to be my greatest friend, and I loved him devoutly. One thing that always stood out to me during this time was that, unlike the other squires, myself included, Rhaegar never seemed to yearn for glory on the field of battle. He showed immense prowess in combat, yes, but he viewed his training as part of his duty as crown prince and never seemed to relish it.

“Truth be told, Rhaegar excelled in most everything that he attempted. He was quite bookish and could have been an Archmaester if he were not the heir to the throne. You, yourself, have shown similar aptitude in your own studies.” Jon sighed. “However, Rhaegar’s true passion was music. He would often walk through the streets of King’s Landing alongside the Kingsguard and sing as he played his harp.

“Oh, if you could have seen him. When he played, smallfolk and members of court alike would pause to watch. His voice as sweet as honey, and he strummed his harp with the delicacy of a mother holding her babe.” Jon sighed, remembering. “He stole the hearts of many as they watched him play, of this there can be no doubt.” 

Aegon stared at him, seemingly stunned into silence by his words. Finally, he blinked. “He sounds like he must have been quite a person, to have such a diverse set of skills. Perhaps I should try to broaden my own horizons. After all, if I can’t win my aunt’s hand with the Seven Kingdoms, perhaps I could capture her love with a serenade.” He chuckled, then appeared to contemplate for a moment. “Was he skilled in the politics of the Realm? Being the crown prince, he must have been involved in its rule to some extent.”

“He…” Jon hesitated. “He was quite adept at settling various disputes between lords as they arose, but his father’s paranoia seemed to prevent him from sitting on the Small Council. In fact, it seemed to keep anyone from sitting for long. Council members came and went like ravens; whenever one soared too high in King Aerys’s eyes, they would be shot down. Even Tywin Lannister was not immune to the king’s jealousy; he was removed from the position of Hand for, in essence, being a superior ruler to Aerys himself. A good king heeds good council. Aerys, on the other hand, seemed to expect only sycophancy from his advisors.

“Rhaegar’s potential to excel in the governance of the Seven Kingdoms took the form of the Tournament of Harrenhal. You see, in the time leading up to the tourney, King Aerys’s paranoia was growing along with his violent tendencies. Rhaegar himself could see this and knew that his father’s rule was jeopardizing the increasingly fragile peace within the Realm. Many of the lords were beginning to conspire against the throne, culminating in marriage alliances between the Tully, Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark houses. A rebellion from the combined strength of these Great Houses would have meant the end of Targaryen rule over Westeros-“

“It did end the rule of my family, you mean,” Aegon interjected. “Everyone knows those usurpers stole the throne from my family. We wouldn’t be here, preparing to attack Storm’s End, if they hadn’t.”

The interruption slightly angered Jon. “Aegon,” he grumbled. “You may be the rightful king, but you’re still young. You can learn something about ruling if you listen to me.” He continued. “Robert’s rebellion could have been avoided entirely. Rhaegar knew this, which is precisely why he organized the Tourney of Harrenhal. Only his closest advisors knew his true motive: the tournament was a front that Rhaegar was using to bring the lords of Westeros together.

“You see, while Aerys was an unpopular king, Rhaegar was widely respected across the Seven Kingdoms. He knew that the last chance for peace was for him to forcibly remove his own father from the Iron Throne in favor of himself. His rule would undoubtedly have gained the assent of the lords of Westeros and quelled the potential for rebellion. Unfortunately, one of Rhaegar’s advisors, the identity of whom I do not know, betrayed his plans to Aerys, who decided to leave the Red Keep for the first time in years to attend the tournament. With that, the Tournament at Harrenhal, what would have been Rhaegar’s greatest political achievement, turned into his greatest blunder.

“After the tournament, as you know, he ran off with Lyanna Stark,” Jon spat her name in disgust. “Lord Stark and his heir went to King’s Landing to plea for Lyanna’s return; he responded by having them killed in a rather grotesque fashion, earning him the name of Mad King and throwing the Realm into a rebellion led by Ned Stark, Lyanna’s brother, and Robert Baratheon, her betrothed. Love is the death of duty, and Rhaegar’s love for Lyanna lost him his life, and your family its throne...” He trailed off.

For a few long moments, an uncomfortable silence ensued, until finally Aegon spoke. “Thank you for telling me this, my lord. I will not make the same mistake as my father.” He rose and walked into the sea of tents, shadowed by Ser Rolly.

The next day, the forces of the Golden Company massed atop a hill overlooking Storm’s End. Jon sat astride a horse alongside Aegon and Harry Strickland as they went over the battle plans again. After they determined that they were satisfied with their strategy, Aegon looked at him. With a nod of determination, he said, “Let’s do this.” 

The army proceeded to march downhill toward Storm’s End. The cavalry was leading the way, followed by the infantry, with the archers bringing up the rear. 

Truth be told, the battle that ensued was won as soon as it began. The Rowan army, a token force left to continue the siege while the Tyrell host was in King’s Landing, almost exclusively consisted of infantry and was outnumbered nearly ten-to-one by the Golden Company. The cavalry cut through them like a hot knife through butter; horses and elephants trampled men into the ground, while others were impaled on lances and pikes. Those who hadn’t surrendered or been killed by the initial charge were quickly dispatched by the following infantry, while the rest were taken as prisoners. Jon later found out that not a single arrow had been fired during the skirmish. 

After the battle, Jon ordered the standards of the Golden Company brought down and replaced with a white flag to signal a truce. The thought of the coming deceit made him feel sick to his stomach, but he remembered his failure at the Battle of the Bells and thought, _I must do what Tywin Lannister would in this situation. There can be no room for mercy in war._ His determination renewed, Jon brought his horse forward to meet the envoy that had emerged from Storm’s End.

As his horse trotted toward the massive fortress, he worried that he might be recognized by the envoy. _No, that won’t happen,_ he reassured himself. _All our forces are wearing the standard armor of the Golden Company, and I haven’t been in Westeros for over fifteen years. Not to mention, the Spider has spread rumors of my death to every corner of the Realm._

When he reached the envoy, he brought his horse to a halt. The envoy, a lad no older than twenty, gave him a look of apprehension before asking, “Who are you and who do you serve?” 

Jon replied automatically, “I am Griff, sent on behalf of the Golden Company. We were hired by Stannis Baratheon, the rightful king of Westeros, to aid in his war for the Iron Throne. He ordered us to break the siege on Storm’s End and solidify his hold on it, then to meet with the commander of this garrison in order to discuss plans for a march on King’s Landing.” 

The envoy looked skeptical. “We’ve heard rumors that support what you say, but we have yet to receive formal confirmation from King Stannis on the matter.”

Griff looked at him as if he were stupid. “That’s most likely because the Rowans have had all your ravens shot down, we’ve seen their bodies littering the ground, their messages removed and most likely burned. We’ve completed the first part of our arrangement with the king, and intend to complete the rest, but we need your cooperation to do so. Or,” he added, “We can write to your king and let him know that you have refused the aid he has sent for you.”

The man’s face blanched as pale as snow. “That won’t be necessary. I will bring your message to Ser Gilbert Farring.”

When Griff returned to the lines of the Golden Company, he saw that they were setting up their encampment. He trotted his horse to the command tent and went inside. The officers were all convened in the tent, along with King Aegon and Haldon Halfmaester. He looked at them. “The message has been delivered, now we must wait to see if they will believe us. Until then, assemble a force of five-hundred good men who will conduct our tentative assault on the garrison.” As the officers scrambled to carry out his command, he turned to Aegon. “My king, do you still intend to lead this attack? You already know my thoughts on the matter.”

Aegon glared at him pointedly. “My lord, you have told me that a good king listens to good council. This is true, but a good king must also listen to his own intuition when he knows that he is right. I can’t be a ruler who lets my men do my work for me. Otherwise, I would be no different from the boy king who currently sits the Iron Throne. My people must know that if they will fight for me, I will fight for them.” 

Jon could see the logic in his king’s reasoning and knew that he would not be able to change his mind, so he relented. “Then I will fight by your side, your grace. May your blade serve you well.”

After a while, the loud noise of metal grinding against stone could be heard as the portcullis barring entry to Storm’s End was raised. Jon and Aegon donned their helmets and took their place at the head of the column as they marched their men into the keep.

Inside, they were met by fifty men in the main courtyard. Aegon held up his hand in a fist, signaling a cease to their march. He removed his helmet, shaking out his long, silver hair as he did so. For a moment, the men of the garrison were in shock as they recognized his Valyrian features, then he muttered a word. “Attack.”

The Golden Company responded with impressive discipline, as roughly half of the force began to combat the men greeting them and the other half went deeper into the keep to assault the rest of the garrison. Jon whirled into battle, slicing through one soldier who had not yet figured out what was happening. He turned to see a pike thrust toward him, sidestepped it, and removed the wielder’s head. In the corner of his eye, he saw Aegon holding his own as a well-armored man was assailing him. With one arm, he deflected the man’s blows with his sword, while his other hand removed his dirk from its sheath and drove it into his shoulder between his breastplate and gorget. 

As the battle progressed, Jon’s warrior instinct kicked in and all his movements seemed to flow into a continuous dance of death. He was very aware of enemy attacks, knowing that if he were to be injured, his condition would be revealed to those who would treat him. _I must fight flawlessly,_ he resolved.

And flawless he was, cutting through every soldier who thought to oppose him. At the end of the battle, he had managed to escape the bloodshed unscathed. He ordered the portcullis reopened, to make way for the entry of the Golden Company, then set out to find his king.

He found him in the Round Hall seated in the great throne at its head, ordering his men to tear down King Stannis’s banners and replace them with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. When he spotted Jon, he paused. “My lord,” he said. “Stand before me.” 

When Jon acquiesced, Aegon gripped him strongly by his hand. Jon grinned, “My king, Storm’s End is yours.” As Jon removed his hand from his king’s grip, he felt a small weight in it. In his hand, he saw, was a golden clasp fashioned in the shape of a hand. Knowing its significance, he immediate dropped to his knee.

Aegon stood over him with the fierce regality of a true Targaryen. “Jon Connington, I name you the Hand of the King. Your actions today have won me Storm’s End, and no man living has done more for my house than you have done and will continue to do. You have taught me what it truly means to be a king, and I would have none other by my side as I rule the Seven Kingdoms. Rise, my lord, and help me retake the Iron Throne.”

Jon stood, feeling his heart clench. _Rhaegar, my silver prince, if only you could see your son now._ His voice quavered as he said, “Your honor me, your grace. I will serve you faithfully until my last breath.”

Eventually, the officers of the Golden Company assembled in the Round Hall, chattering amongst themselves. Rising from his throne, Aegon stood before them all, his imposing figure bringing any conversation to a halt. “Men of the Golden Company,” he said with conviction. “Today we have done what has never been done before. We have brought the storm to Storm’s End. Tomorrow, we will bring it to King’s Landing! Will you fight for me?!”

The response was earsplitting. “YES!!!”

“Will you win for me?!”

“YES!!!”

He smiled, knowing the crowd was eating from his palms. “Then let us begin.”

A chant erupted. “AEGON! STORMBRINGER! AEGON! STORMBRINGER!”

The emotion in the hall was so overwhelming, Jon couldn’t help but chime in. “AEGON! STORMBRINGER! AEGON! STORMBRINGER! STORMBRINGER! STORMBRINGER! STORMBRINGER!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think. I managed to get a better word count in this chapter. I feel like Jon Connington is a harder character to write because of his limited POVs in the books. I'm still thinking about which POV to write next. I'm leaning toward either Barristan in the Battle of Meereen, Theon or Asha in the Battle of Ice, or maybe Dany or Sansa. Let me know if you have a preference.


	4. Asha I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battle of Ice at the crofter's village

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so no one is confused about where things stand, this chapter picks up after the Theon preview chapter from TWOW.
> 
> With so many different characters, it is hard to write them all in a way that feels faithful to GRRM's characterizations. I'm sure I'm taking some liberties, but I hope that they don't feel too different from canon. Let me know if anyone feels out of character.
> 
> Personally, this is the chapter I have felt the worst about before uploading, but hopefully everyone finds it enjoyable. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!!!

**Asha**

Despite the severe snowstorm, Stannis’s camp was bustling with activity as preparations were made for the arrival of the Frey force. Asha watched as numerous trees were felled by king’s men, to be used to build catapults or night fires for their red god. On an island in the larger of the two lakes adjacent to the crofter’s village, she saw men erect five large stakes below a solitary weirwood tree.

Much and more had happened since her brother’s arrival with the representative of the Iron Bank, Tycho Nestoris. The Braavosi had brought a message from the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, informing Stannis that Arnolf Karstark had been colluding with the Boltons and planned to betray him. When Stannis heard this, he immediately had Karstark, his son, and his three grandchildren imprisoned, while the Karstark men-at-arms were questioned to determine their complicity in the plot. 

Shortly thereafter, a raven arrived from Crowfood Umber providing details about the march of the Frey host that had been dispatched to attack Stannis. Apparently, the Umber men had been digging deadfall pits around Winterfell. Aenys Frey, one of the two commanders of that host, had fallen into one of them, breaking his neck. This news greatly boosted the morale among the king’s men-at-arms and their hope for victory, as Hosteen Frey, now the sole leader of the incoming army, was reputed to be rash and rather unintelligent. 

Asha turned to see Alysane Mormont approaching her. The she-bear, gruff as ever, beckoned her to follow. “Come. His Grace, King Stannis, wishes to speak with you.” Asha noticed that she had trouble repressing her disdain for the king when she mentioned him. 

Reluctantly, she fell into step with Alysane, knowing that as the king’s prisoner, she would be wise to stay in his good graces. As they walked toward the watchtower where Stannis had been secluding himself, Asha glanced at Alysane. 

The heir of Bear Island had been the closest she had to a friend since her capture at Deepwood Motte. Asha had come to know her as a kindred spirit, a woman warrior defying the Westerori expectations for their gender. This knowledge alone seemed to perpetuate a feeling of mutual respect between the two.

Alysane seemed to have felt Asha’s gaze upon her. “See something that interests you?” she asked. 

Asha jumped, shaken from her thoughts. “I…” she stammered, looking for a way to convey herself without putting Alysane off. “To be honest, I was seeing a bit of myself in you. Your will, your resolve to wield a sword, to fight for your house as a man would; I am much the same. On the Iron Islands, women don’t normally have that ability. Even I was only allowed to take up arms because my father thought I was his sole remaining child. 

“Where I come from, reavers regularly rape women or take them as salt wives, itself another form of subjugation. They treat women as possessions to do with as they please. But you and I, we’re living examples that women can be just as capable as men at doing, well, anything they strive to do…” She trailed off. 

Alysane gave her a slight smile. “My home, Bear Island, is one of the more sparsely populated areas in the north. Over the centuries, we have had many encounters with overzealous ironborn raiders that sailed too far north, or wildlings attacking from beyond the Wall. To make up for what we lack in numbers, boys and girls alike are trained for battle at a very young age. We determine good warriors by their prowess in combat, not by what’s between their legs. Still, I see a bit of myself in you too- Lady Greyjoy.” Her lips quirked upwards teasingly, and Asha gave her a playful shove.

When they reached the watchtower, Asha was greeted with a scowl from Ser Clayton Suggs, who was guarding the entrance. He was a rather sadistic person, who had recently been trying to have Asha sacrificed to R’hllor for her king’s blood. “What are you doing here, squid?” he growled. 

Alysane stepped forward, sensing the tension of the situation and rushing to defuse it. “Ser, the king has asked for an audience with Lady Asha. So please, step aside and allow us to pass.” 

Ser Clayton had no choice but to comply. He stepped aside, grumbling petulantly as he did so. Alysane led Asha past him and into the watchtower.

Inside, it was dark but for several dimly lit torches lighting the spiraling stairway to the beacon chamber at the top of the tower. Asha shivered involuntarily as she felt the cold air radiating from the large stones which made up the tower’s foundation; it seemed as if the walls retained the low air temperature as an ice chamber would. As Asha ascended the stairs, however, the cold slowly seemed to melt away until she reached the door at the top.

Alysane opened the door, and Asha’s eyes, having adjusted to the darkness of the stairwell, were assaulted by an intense light which could have only come from the beacon fire. The heat from the fire was almost uncomfortably strong, but she could care less as she felt the warmest that she had been since leaving Deepwood Motte. The numbness in her extremities gave way to a pleasant ache as the cold melted from her body. 

Once her eyes had become accustomed to the brightness of the fire, she saw the king. In a word, Stannis Baratheon looked terrible. His face was a deep red, as if the heat radiating from the fire had been slowly burning him over time. He was thin, with sunken cheeks, indicating that he hadn’t been eating properly, and he had bags under his eyes which Asha associated with a lack of sleep. However, when Asha looked at his eyes she was met with a fierce gaze, emblazoned by the fire that was reflected in his eyes; Stannis Baratheon looked determined. 

“Lady Greyjoy,” he grunted. “I want to talk about your turncloak brother. I know what must be done with him.” His eyes left hers and his gaze returned to the beacon fire.

“Theon turncloak has committed unspeakable crimes. His murder of the Stark children has left the north without one of Lord Eddard’s trueborn sons to stand against the Boltons. I offered to legitimize Ned’s bastard as the Lord of Winterfell, that the north might rally behind him, but he appears to be just as honorable as his father. More honorable than a bastard has the right to be. He _rejected_ my offer of Winterfell in favor of his bloody vows to the Night’s Watch once the black brothers made him their Lord Commander.”

Stannis seethed for a moment, giving Asha some time to think. _What sort of green fool gives up the north in favor of the Night’s Watch? The Bastard of Winterfell must be cracked in the head._

Stannis gritted his teeth angrily before continuing, “Your brother’s actions had left me without a Stark to give legitimacy to my claim to the north. His punishment for that crime will be death. Indeed, I had been considering giving him to R’hllor; his king’s blood might have brought the Lord’s light on our endeavor.” Asha shuddered at the thought of Theon writhing in the red god’s flames.

“However, I have decided against such a course of action. Theon, despite his earlier crimes, has brought us the Stark girl, and I suspect that she alone was the reason that the northern lords have been tolerating Bolton rule. Still, he must die if I am to win the north to my cause. He murdered two Starks; I can’t expect any northman to rally behind me if I show him mercy. You have swayed me to give him a clean death, before the weirwood, as Lord Eddard would have done. I realize that if I show solidarity with the gods of the north, I might have an easier time winning over these stubborn lords.

“If I am to do this, my lady, I need one thing from you. As Balon Greyjoy’s heir, you have the rightful claim to the Iron Islands; a claim usurped by your traitor uncle. I need you if I am to have any hope of bringing Pyke under my reign. If you recognize me as your true king, not only will I give your brother a better death than he deserves, I will make you Lady Paramount of the Iron Islands and my army will take your home back from your uncle. Lady Asha, I ask that you bend the knee to me” 

Asha considered his proposal. It seemed like a logical course of action, and yet she felt that she would be condemning her brother to death by assenting. _I had wanted the Iron Islands to make peace with the north. If Stannis is in control of the north, then such a peace might yet be realized. What is the life of one man- even my brother- to countless lives that had been shattered because of her father’s folly conquest? Besides, the king will kill my brother either way. Better he gets a quick death by sword than to burn in agony._ Her resolve hardened, and Asha reached a decision. 

“Your Grace,” she said. “This is a good plan. I will bend the knee. I only ask that you return my axe to me so that I might lay it at your feet when I do so. A warrior must needs pledge their weapon to their liege, after all.”

“Very well, my lady.” The king turned to Alysane, who had been so quiet that Asha had forgotten she was with them. “Lady Alysane, please fetch Lady Greyjoy’s axe.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Alysane left the room.

As they waited for her return, Asha studied her new king as he stared into the beacon fire. She had come to know him as hard and stubborn. Yet, despite his cold personality, Asha had come to respect his deep-rooted sense of duty and justice. He viewed his kingship as a burden that he must bear by rights, and Asha wasn’t sure that he wanted it in the first place. _He puts his responsibilities as king before himself. He would make a truly great king-_ Asha recalled the screams of the men Stannis had burned; the putrid smell of their roasted flesh. _-if only he weren’t so easily influenced by the red priestess._

Alysane walked back into the chamber and handed Asha her axe. As she gripped it, Asha relished the familiarity of the weight in her hand. The weapon felt like an extension of her arm; not having it had made her feel un-whole. 

Asha placed her axe at Stannis’s feet. “Your Grace, I pledge to you the fealty of House Greyjoy and the Iron Islands, once they are brought into the fold.”

Stannis grunted indifferently. He unsheathed his sword, Lightbringer, which emitted a light so bright that Asha had to look away. She shuddered as he lowered the blade of the sword onto her shoulder. _How odd,_ she thought dryly. _That a blade can shine so brilliantly yet feel so cold to the touch._ Her thoughts were interrupted when the king spoke.

“Lady Asha of House Greyjoy, rise and serve your rightful king.” 

Just then, Ser Richard Horpe and Ser Godry Farring burst into the room. “Your Grace,” Ser Godry barked. “We have heard the sound of drums coming from the woods to the south of the village. The Freys are here.”

The king bristled, and Asha could see the rage burning in his demeanor. “Get the men ready,” he shouted. “Farring, take the Karstark traitors to the weirwood islet. Horpe, prepare the catapults. Remember the signal.”

Turning, Stannis pulled a rope hanging from a large barrel mounted above the beacon fire. The barrel overturned, and water fell onto the flames, extinguishing them. The room went dark save for several torches ensconced along the walls. 

Without missing a beat, Stannis walked to the exit. “Greyjoy,” Asha heard him mutter as he passed by. “Get your fellow ironborn and go with Lady Mormont. We can use all the swords we can get. My advice to you: when the battle begins, stay away from the ice.” He abruptly slammed the door behind him as he walked out. Alysane motioned for Asha to follow, and together they left the tower as well.

While Asha had been inside the tower, the winter storm had once again picked up. Snow was buffeting her endlessly, and a thick fog had fallen over the crofter’s village. Navigating through the village was made even harder without a beacon light to mitigate the intensity of the mist in the air. If she hadn’t familiarized herself with the layout of the encampment, Asha would have gotten lost as she made her way to her fellow ironborn. Even still, she practically stumbled into Tristifer Botley when she came across him.

“Tris,” she said. “Find Qarl and prepare for battle. The Freys are here. I’ve bent the knee to Stannis, and he wants us to fight for him.”

Tris looked dumbfounded. “You what? You bent the-“ His next words were drowned out by the loud sound of a northern war horn.

_Aahhhhhoooooooooooooo!_

All around them, men-at-arms were putting on their armor, sheathing their weapons, and joining their ranks. Asha turned to Tris.

“We’ll talk about this later. For now, just do as I’ve bid.” She turned and walked toward the formation, scouring the ranks of men until she found Alysane.

“Lady Mormont, would you honor me by fighting by my side?”

Alysane grinned. “Of course, Lady Greyjoy.”

Asha scanned the formation, as she did before every battle. She liked to determine the strengths and weaknesses of the forces, both friend and foe. Doing so allowed her to strategize on the fly during battle and avoid being caught off guard.

As the Frey host assembled at the end of the narrow strip of land between the two lakes flanking the village, Asha immediately noted their biggest strength. _We have the advantage in numbers, but we’ve eaten all our bloody horses. The Freys have a full cavalry with relatively fresh mounts._ She knew that the snow drifts would slow the horses in battle, mitigating cavalry’s potential to break their ranks. However, she couldn’t shake her fear that Stannis’s soldiers would lack the discipline to face down a charge on foot.

Asha determined that the Stannis’s greatest advantage was the layout of the village and the surrounding area. Having been marooned in the village for nearly two weeks, the king’s men had grown very familiar with the land and were quite obviously using the location of the lakes to their advantage. There were two formations of men: the larger one was preparing for the initial Frey charge from the south, while another one was guarding their northern flank in case the enemy attempted to encircle them. The lakes formed a sort of bottleneck to the east and west, limiting any mounted troop movements in those directions. Asha couldn’t help but admire the intricacy that had gone into the king’s strategies. _He’s using the lay of the land to diminish the possibility for the Freys to break our ranks in one fell swoop. A charge can only come from north or south and will hit our forces head on, giving us a better change to defend ourselves while also eliminating the possibility for a pincer maneuver._

Asha was shaken from her reverie by the sound of drums to the south.

BOOM doom doom, BOOM doom doom, BOOM doom doom…

She looked in the direction of the drums, but the fog was so dense that she could see nothing beyond the lines of king’s men in front of her. The drumming steadily grew louder.

_BOOM doom doom, BOOM doom doom, BOOM DOOM DOOM, BOOM DOOM DOOM!!!_

Suddenly the drums stopped, and Asha felt the ground quake with the thunder that could only have been made by thousands of hooves. She tensed, feeling herself fall into the detached mind state she associated with battle, in which every movement is instinctive and deliberate. 

Through the haze, she heard a shout.

“PIKES AT THE READY!”

In response, the men in the front lines all lowered their lances. The hoofbeats grew deafening.

“BRACE FOR IMPACT!”

A thousand men tensed as one. Through the fog, Asha could start to make out the silhouettes of countless horses galloping towards them as fast as the snow would allow them to.

What followed could only be described as an explosion of bodies as the charging cavalry met Stannis’s men at arms. Asha was several lines back and not yet exposed to the bloodshed, but she could see men falling from their horses with pikes embedded in their guts while others were run down and reduced to piles of blood and splintered bone. 

Soon the strip of land between the lakes was so jammed up that Asha realized the Frey cavalry wouldn’t be able to double back for a second charge. Taking advantage of the situation, she leapt into action. A horse approached her, but she dodged to the right and hacked the stallion’s leg off with a blow from her axe. The horse fell and the rider was spilled from his saddle at her feet. Before he could react, she shaved him a bit too closely, cutting his head in two just above his eyes. 

Asha turned just in time to catch a sword blow from an enemy on foot who must have lost his horse in the initial charge. With strength that can only be accrued through years of combat experience, she thrust his sword aside and buried her axe in his shoulder. 

She dispatched several more enemies before she heard another blast of the warhorn.

_Aahhhhhoooooooooooooo!_

The horn was quickly followed by a shout.

“RETREAT! THE KING IS EXPOSED! RETREAT!”

Asha recognized the gruff voice as belonging to Clayton Suggs. Around her, men broke ranks left and right as they scrambled back toward the watchtower at the center of the crofter’s village. She glanced around, trying to make sense of what was going on, when she noticed an intense light coming through the fog. _It’s coming from the weirwood isle. Stannis must have burnt the Karstarks, but why would he expose himself so blatantly in the heat of battle?_

She jolted when a voice near her was raised. Turning, she saw a large, imposing figure atop a black destrier barking orders to his men. She recognized him as Hosteen Frey by the twin towers of his sigil on his chest. _He must see his opening to kill Stannis and end this war._

As one, the Frey men turned and began galloping toward the fire, either not realizing that they were moving across a sheet of ice or not caring. Asha watched as several horses tripped over the fishing holes that had been bored into the ice, but the better part of the cavalry continued onward.

When a significant portion of the horseman had ridden onto the ice, Asha was forced to avert her gaze as a blinding light began pulsating from the island, followed by the braying of horses as they threw their riders. _He’s drawn his sword,_ she knew. Her thoughts returned to something that the king had said to her before battle. _Stay away from the ice._ She gasped as she realized what the king had planned. _This man is a genius._

Like clockwork, she heard the snap of catapult arms as boulders were thrown by the ton. They landed with a crash and the air was filled with the sound of ice cracking. _The fishing holes weakened the ice layer above the lake. The catapults have done the rest._

When the Frey men became aware of the shattering ice beneath their feet, they started scrambling towards the lake shores, but by then it was too late. One by one, men fell into the lake as the ice gave way beneath them. _Most of them will drown, weighed down by their armor. But the unlucky ones who don’t drown will freeze to death._

The remaining men-at-arms from the Frey host, no more than several hundred, bolted for the woods. Asha thought that they would escape when another cavalry emerged from the fog, cutting them down as they fled. She could make out a white merman on the newcomers’ banners and recognized them as Manderly men. 

_So, Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse has decided to change his allegiance. Stannis must have been right when he surmised that much of the north follows the Boltons solely because they had a Stark._ Asha was impressed that the Stark name could command such devotion. Her own house had always had feuds with lesser lords who sought to undermine their hold on the Iron Islands.

A crowd of men was forming in the village at the foot of the watchtower, as Lord Wyman Manderly’s horse struggled to trot up to Stannis, who had returned from the weirwood island.

Wyman’s men helped him from his horse, and he somehow managed to kneel before the king. 

“Your Grace,” he said. “It is always my pleasure to kill some Freys. They tried to open my throat-“ he patted a bandage on one of his chins, “-but I had too much neck for them to cut through!” He started to laugh loudly, but it quickly devolved into a fit of coughing. He began to stand up, failed, and had to be helped up.

Stannis gave him a hard glare. “Enough, fat man. You killed my Onion Lord. You’re a traitor, and now you’re a turncloak.” He gestured to the fires burning across the lake. “Why do you deserve any better than Arnolf Karstark?”

Wyman gulped. “My king, the Freys had my son, Wylis, and the Boltons had my liegelady. I dared not oppose them, or else risk my son’s life. However, he has since been freed by the Freys and you have liberated Arya Stark. I see no reason to continue serving a house I despise. As for Lord Davos, I’m happy to tell you that I faked his death to convince Cersei Lannister to order my son’s release.“

“Do not presume to patronize me, my lord,” Stannis shot back, showing his stubbornness. “I am your rightful king, and you dared to turn your back on me. Still, I want to hold the north, and I cannot hope to win the support of its lords if they believe I will put them to death for supporting the Boltons. Very well, Lord Manderly, come with me so we can discuss the terms of your surrender.” The two disappeared into the watchtower. 

With the spectacle over, Asha realized just how tired she had become as the excitement of battle had worn off. She retired to her room, hoping to sleep.

Those hoped were dashed about half an hour later, when her door was flung open. “Oh, come on,” Asha complained. “Can no one sleep in peace here?”

The intruder chuckled, and Asha realized that it was none other than Alysane Mormont. “Not when the king wants to speak with you, my lady.”

“Again? Hasn’t he spoken to me enough for one day?”

“Apparently not.”

Asha grumbled, and forced herself out of bed. Once she threw on some clothes and donned a winter cloak, she took off to the watchtower.

She arrived to find Stannis seated in front of a map of the north, likely determining his next course of action.

“My king,” she asked. “You wished to see me?”

Not bothering to look up, Stannis replied, “I did, Lady Asha, I’d like your counsel.”

“Your Grace,” Asha was confused. “I have just come into your service this very day. Surely you have more trusted advisors with you.”

“Ha!” Stannis snorted. “I only have two advisors that I trust. One is at the Wall with Ned’s bastard, and the other is apparently on some folly quest for our bulbous merman lord. The rest of these buffoons can swing a sword as good as anyone, but their combined brains couldn’t dream of spearheading a war effort.” He looked at her. “Besides, you have given me good advice regarding your brother.”

“Very well,” Asha relented. “What can I do to help?”

“First, let me explain the situation,” Stannis began. “From what Manderly has told me, we do not currently have enough men to take Winterfell by force. He has sent an envoy to the castle with my sword to inform the Boltons that I have been killed in battle, but Roose is not so rash as to let his guard down, especially once he realizes that the Frey army is not returning. This will only buy us some time to regroup. Lord Wyman also says that Winterfell is well-provisioned with supplies from the Dreadfort, which rules out any possibility of a siege. It has become apparent to me that the only way that we can hope to take the castle is by recruiting more men for my army.”

_Easier said than done._ “And how do you suppose we do that, Your Grace?”

“Before I sent him away, the Braavosi banker informed me that Jon Snow has let four-thousand wildlings through the Wall, and that they have sworn their loyalty to the Lord Commander. If he can somehow be convinced to march south with the wildlings, their added numbers should be enough for us to storm the castle.”

Asha thought on his words. “But he has already refused to participate in your war, Your Grace. How do you suppose that he be swayed to change his mind now?”

The king scowled. “That is the problem. The Lord Commander is as stubborn as a mule. He wouldn’t dare leave Castle Black without reason. If he could be convinced that the Boltons pose a threat to the wildlings that he has been letting into the north, or perhaps to the Nights Watch itself, he might decide to take action.” The king’s words fell into silence and became engrossed in thought.

Asha remembered what Theon had told her about his time in Winterfell, and his escape with the Stark girl. “Your Grace, did you know that Mance Rayder is still alive? My brother said that he was in Winterfell posing as a bard. Apparently, he helped steal Arya Stark away from the Boltons. Perhaps the wildlings could be convinced to march on Winterfell for their former king?”

Stannis looked stunned for a moment before composing himself. “The red woman has been hiding things from me, it seems. If what you say is true, then yes, I believe the wildlings would be inclined to march if they believed that the deserter king’s life is at risk. However, that doesn’t solve the crux of our problem: Jon Snow surely won’t allow the wildlings to leave the Wall simply to aid Mance Rayder.” 

_Snow may march if he feels threatened. We need to convince the Lord Commander that the Boltons pose an existential threat to the Night’s Watch. He won’t march south for his family’s sake, but perhaps he will march in defense of the institution he has pledged his life to._ “Your Grace, do you have any pink sealing wax?”

“Of course not,” Stannis scoffed. “Do you take me for a bloody Bolton?”

“White wax, then. We can mix blood with it to give it a pink tinge. I believe Lord Snow will be expecting a letter from Ramsay Bolton.” Asha grabbed a parchment, dipped a quill in ink, and began writing furiously. When she finished, she folded the paper and addressed it with one word. 

_Bastard_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've been focused on relatively minor POV characters so far, but I feel it's necessary to lay the foundation for the overall plot. I'll try to do a more central character next. If there's any character that you would prefer I write next, feel free to suggest them to me. As of yet, I haven't decided who's next.


End file.
